


After The Fall

by DreamofInception



Category: Bellarke - Fandom, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Hope, Love, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamofInception/pseuds/DreamofInception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke doesn't know why Bellamy Blake still believes in her. One-shot. Pots 2x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guy! This is something I wrote after season 2 episode 8 so it follows those events! Enjoy! And don't forget to read my other Bellarke series - Nowhere Found!

i.

It's been 43 days since the night of Finn's tragic conclusion.

17 days since the survivors of the Ark led a rescue mission that freed the remaining 100 of Mount Weather, and destroyed the evil that grew within their cryptic society.

And exactly 14 days since Clarke Griffin began a convenient routine in order to distract herself from the chaos around her - with sex.

It's a cool spring night, but she can't control the heat that rolls from her body as the boy above her holds her close. Clarke wraps her arms around his neck, and she buries her face in his neck, avoiding the intensity of his eyes. She remembers the boys face, remembers sleeping with him a few nights ago, remembers teaching him how to properly hold a gun when they first began their training, but the one thing she doesn't seem to remember?

His name.

Maybe it's for the better, she thinks, not knowing things that can get someone attached. It's not as if she intends on keeping this relationship with him, if you can even call that, but for now the act of his hips thrusting against her own is enough to make her forget why she's even doing it.

He collapses against her in a drawn out groan, his chest sliding on hers in a last attempt at friction. She follows shortly after, her finger nails digging into his skin as the memories of pain and despair release from her in an undeserving pleasure. She sighs aloud, her mind cloudy as he rolls off her, his hands resting beneath his head. She's thankful for the few seconds of blank space that surrounds her as she comes down for her high, thankful for the free atmosphere of death and grief. She closes her eyes, and it's the only time that she can rest when she doesn't see Finn's face in her mind, doesn't see the light leave his gaze that once looked at her with love.

But, just like his life, it all ends too shortly.

The permanent feelings of hopelessness return, as does the empty feeling in her heart. She misses the state of oblivion the moment it dissolves, and then she's back in the realistic version of herself - the Clarke that fears, the Clarke that sins, the Clarke that kills.

The boy doesn't look at her as she lifts herself from the mattress they rest on in his tent, and she's not sure if she's grateful or insulted by his lack of respect. She bends to grab her pants and slips one leg in before she pulls them up around her waist. She finds her shirt and jacket in a pile at the entrance of the tent, her shoes nearby. Without looking back and without looking forward, she disappears from his sight, entering the cool breeze of midnight that surrounds her outside.

Camp Jaha is lit up in it's usual setting, with few guards positioned around the outline of the fence. Since the declining threat of the Grounders and Mountain Men, the council decided to limit the amount of guards that protect the camp, the only real fear out there being the elements of earth they've yet to discover.

Clarke sighs as she looks at the familiar scene around here, wishing she could leave, take her troubles with her, and lose herself in the curiosity of the woods. Even with security settled comfortably on the camp, the Ark and 100 survivors are still limited to the outside, only being allowed to leave if given permission or for hunting.

Clarke lays her eyes on a fresh patch of grass a couple feet away from her and starts to move towards it in the darkness. Not yet wanting to return to her tent, and to the sleep that never comes, she settles on the landscape, her arms wrapping around her legs she she admires the moon above her. She feels as if the light from the sky is tracing her scars, and she shields her face, resting her chin on her knees.

Her mother told her that losing Finn would get easier, since apparently Abby has a life worth of experiences to understand Clarke's turmoil. Abby had a choice whether or not to let her loved one die, Clarke didn't.

Octavia says that it'll hurt for a while, and Clarke appreciates her comments because she isn't exactly being hopeful and she isn't exactly being hopeless.

There's Raven. The women who looks forward to the day that Clarke finally succumbs to her internal injuries and stops existing. The woman who spits on her path, who blames her for every conflict, who wishes her dead. Not that Clarke can exactly blame her.

"Hey."

She feels the weight of the earth around her shift, and she doesn't have to look to recognize his voice, to know who's body is positioning itself beside her. A small flicker of relief warms her body as he settles on the grass with her.

Bellamy. God damn Bellamy. The only one who looks at her like she isn't broken. Even if she is; even if she's unfixable.

Clarke turns her head on her knees, tilting her face to look at the darkness that covers his expression. It doesn't matter though, she knows each of his features permanently by now.

"Hey," she mumbles out, noticing the gun in his lap, "you on watch?"

Bellamy nods. He traces his fingers around the mechanical parts of his weapon, and it brings her back to when they first found them together, how anew they were. Now the act of using and holding it is an additional sense. "Kane said there was a close call in the woods today with one of those mutant jaguars. Wants us all to guard the perimeters until morning."

Clarke almost smiles in disbelief. "A couple months ago we were afraid that hundreds of Grounders were going to slaughter us, and now there's a panic over a jaguar," she comments.

"I guess when there's not much to worry about there's not much to do."

Clarke sighs. How boring life must be for those who do not have to live with the lost lives of hundreds of people on their conscious. She knows its selfish for her to envy their terms of the unknown, it's pitiful for her to be furious about it, but she's too tired to control her temper.

Bellamy notices the discomfort in her expression and she's thankful that they've always been able to communicate through their actions. He draws out a breath, itching at the scar that rests heavily on his hand from the attack they led on Mount Weather. It seems like years ago, and she knows that Bellamy is right, it's so much worse when there's nothing to worry about, because then you stop thinking about the things you hope to change, and start thinking about the things you can't.

He lifts his head from his hands, turning to her in curiosity. He glares at the look of exhaustion that rests in her eyes. "What are you doing up so late, Clarke?"

She avoids his eyes, knowing that she doesn't have the control to handle his criticism. Her silence is enough of an indication for him, and it isn't until then that he notices the dishevelment of her hair, the messiness of her clothes. She hears him breathe deeply. "Clarke - "

"It's temporary," she tells him before he can display any more concern, "it helps for now."

And he knows that she's lying, that she's using it as a pathetic excuse for a distraction, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches her and nods, allowing her to explain how she spent her day turning Reapers back to Grounders, the monsters responsible for her actions. He looks at her without judgement, without sadness.

So when she walks back to her tent later that night, she isn't surprised when the nightmares return, and the image of Finn's lifeless eyes fills her mind.

* * *

 

ii.

Clarke has been doing this for weeks.

The sunlight is heavily beaming on her as she follows the familiar path that leads them throughout the woods. It's an exhausting routine that she has yet to become comfortable with; the endless walking, the endless amount of looks she must make in order to confirm the safety surrounding them. Her hands rest on the trigger of her gun, her arm brushing by Bellamy's bicep with every step she takes.

Kane and Abby walk steadily in front of them, their weapons hoisted evenly at their midriffs. She isn't exactly sure when they became confident of each other - the last Clarke heard of their relationship they were always on the opposite side of every argument on the Ark. But then she looks at Bellamy and remembers that this isn't the Ark anymore, and that before they began their co-leadership on Earth, they were on the opposite side of class and society.

Abby strengthens her step as she leads them to the Grounder headquarters, the setting always a reminder of a certain person she longs to forget. They wait at the entrance until Lexa gestures them forward. Her expression is similar amongst the various times Clarke has spoken with her, cold and unwelcoming. She extends her palm to them, eyes glaring as they begin to strip themselves of their weapons and place them in her palm. Bellamy always manages to keep a small knife along his belt, just in case.

The next couple of hours occur as usual, with Clarke and Abby using their skills of nurture to awaken the Grounders who were once lost inside their own body. Bellamy and Kane stay behind them at a respectable distance, paying attention to every movement, every shift of eyes. And, if there is nothing Clarke and Abby can do to treat the unfixable - (they somehow remind Clarke of herself) - are the ones responsible for killing the Grounders who can not return from the treatment that the Mountain Men provided.

As the sun lowers and dawn awakens, the four of them prepare to begin their journey back to Camp Jaha, but are halted at the sight of Lexa at the entrance.

"I would like to show you something," she tells them, her chin point and voice strong. "In gratitude of our partnership that led us to the victory and defeat of the Mountain Men. If you could follow me."

Bellamy gives Clarke a warning glare, and they step forward with Kane Abby behind them as Lexa leads them outside of the hut. The first thing Clarke sees is a table, and an object laying on the surface.

A human corpse.

Finn's corpse.

Suddenly it's hard to breathe.

"You can bury him if you wish," Lexa continues, disregarding Clarke's emotional state.

Clarke can feel the weight of all eyes on her, the weight of her heavy heart that doesn't seem to beat. She can feel the weight of the knife in her hand, the knife that she used to murder to pale boy in front of her.

She feels like she's going to be sick.

"No, thank you."

She excuses herself from them then. There are a few whispers of her name as they notice the pain in her expression and she hates herself for being weak. She's supposed to be the leader, the one that people can rely on. But then she thinks of Finn, and how he relied on her, and she collapses on the grass, the pressure of love and lost withdrawing from her.

She doesn't know how long it is before she feels his hands in her hair, his fingers softly pulling her strands back as she continues to release herself. There's a distant voice in her ear that whispers comforting words, and it isn't until then that she realizes she's crying.

Fucking crying. Again.

When does it stop?

"It doesn't," Bellamy murmurs, and she doesn't like the idea of her thoughts becoming words without her noticing. His breath is warm against her skin. "But he should have a service."

"He should have had a lot of things."

* * *

 

iii.

Clarke doesn't attend the burial.

But God knows she can feel it.

The few people from camp that go leave for the drop ship at dawn, and despite the words of encouragement from Bellamy and Octavia, Clarke remains in her bed with a burning heart.

When she closes her eyes, she can envision the people crowding around the camp that she once called home. Where she and Bellamy once led the 100, and where the boy who they now lower into the ground once told her he loved her. And she once saved his life, a life that would only be taken from her another day.

She can almost hear the roars of despair from Raven, the sound sending shivers throughout the core of Clarke's body. She remembers when she heard them the first time, when she noticed the bloody knife in Clarke's shaking hands. The screams were defining. Numbing. A sound of pain and torture and heartbreak and hopelessness. And it haunted Clarke for days.

It still does.

Three days later, Bellamy rushes to Clarke with Raven hanging off his side, a deep cut visible at her side. With Raven unconscious, he explains to her that he found her in her present state with a box of tools at her side, claiming she must have cut herself with one of them. He helps her carry Raven to a table in the med bay, and she once remembers hearing of the story when Raven had her surgery the first few days at Camp Jaha, and how Finn held her hand in reassurance.

Clarke sighs and looks at the broken woman in front of her. She calls for her mother and tells Bellamy to leave, working on stitching her skin.

Raven wakes up five hours later.

Her eyes widen as she sees the ceiling above her, and her hands move instantly to her side. She traces her fingers on the stitches and curses under her breath, her eyes resting on Clarke's in irritation.

But before she can begin, Clarke interjects, "it wasn't tools, was it?"

Raven doesn't respond. Her eyes stay focused on Clarke's sympathetic ones. Her lips are quivering and her skin is pale from the loss of blood. She looks down to her injury for a moment before returning her raging glare. Clarke shakes her head and leans forward in her chair, almost afraid to speak the words of disappointment. "You can't do this to yourself, Raven . . . "

"Why not?" She's quick to fire back. Clarke expected this - the anger in her voice - but it doesn't stop her from flinching as the girl she once called her friend looks on at her in disgust. "It's a more convenient way to forget the pain that you caused me. Better than crying and hiding from my problems," - Clarke winces as she feels the words direct to her - "and it sure as hell is better than living."

Clarke can already feel the tears beginning to form in her eyes. "Raven . . . "

"Fuck you, Clarke. Fuck you for caring," Raven hisses. She props herself on her elbows to steady her uncomfortable position. "You are a toxic human being. Poison. You get everyone who cares for you killed, or worse - by spending the rest of their lives dealing with your miserable existence."

Clarke doesn't expect what happens next.

Raven spits in her face.

It isn't long until the tears slip from her cheeks, and Clarke doesn't try to hide it as she calls her mom to come to the med bay to continue to treat Raven. Her cries are permanent, and there is no use in trying to act strong when she knows she can't.

So later, when she exits the tent and meets Bellamy's eyes from across camp, she thinks of Raven's words and the truth behind them. The truth of Wells and her father, of Finn, of the men who loved her, and who no longer can.

Clarke sees the crease appear in Bellamy's forehead when he notices her broken expression. He begins his walk towards her but she just shakes her head, waving her hand at him and returning to her tent.

That night, Clarke sleeps with the nameless boy again.

* * *

 

iv.

"We can't go any further than the east - that's Grounder territory."

Bellamy nods in understanding as Clarke explains to him the hunting terms that her and Lexa have agreed upon. The survivors of the Ark were forbidden to cross on to the location that passes the drop ship, or else, as Lexa says, 'will be _accidentally_ thought of as game and possibly killed.' It wasn't a matter that was easily settled, due to the fact that Lexa's given territory consisted of animals large enough to feed the entire camps. Big and scary animals that open a wide range of opportunities.

And for Bellamy and Clarke, the only potential meal they have come across so far is a rabbit.

Bellamy extends his arm in front of her to stop her movements. She looks at him in alarm, and he gestures towards the sight of a white cottontail as the harmless animal nibbles at the grass. Bellamy tilts his head towards one of the trees above them where one of their handmade traps hangs amongst the branches. Clarke's eyes follow the net and travels along the long piece of rope beside it.

The rabbit grazes the string as it chews, and the net instantly falls on top of it.

Bellamy huffs out a breath of relief as he lowers his arm from Clarke's stomach. He looks at her, a grin spreading wide on his plump lips as he relishes in the idea of being able to bring something home after hours of empty woods. He walks toward the sprawling rabbit pinned to the ground, calling for Clarke to come forward.

Bellamy pulls out his knife. "It's not big but at least it's something."

Clarke nods in agreement as she kneels down next to him, her eyes searching the terrified ones of their prey. She knows that her people are starving back at camp, and she isn't blind to violence, but the image of the awaiting death of this animal of innocence does not rest well with her. Innocent and trapped in front of her. She reaches forward, resting a delicate finger on its skin, soothing the animal as it notices the blade in Bellamy's hands. Waiting. Just waiting. Always waiting for the end. The circle of life.

The circle of life that keeps beginning and ending, ending and beginning. Always waiting for the moment when it's over, when there's no more pain but an endless amount of nothingness. And darkness.

Bellamy jerks his knife towards the rabbit and cuts it free from the net.

Clarke jolts in surprise as the rabbit removes itself from the remaining material that traps it, its eyes suddenly filled with fire. It scuffles away from them, the innocence departing as the mischievousness returns to its shadow.

She turns her head to Bellamy. "Why did you do that?"

Bellamy shrugs and puts the knife back around his belt. He looks at her with a sheepish grin. "We always have a choice," he mumbles in explanation. "Besides, that rabbit was one of the cutest things I've ever seen, no way could I ever have the balls to kill it."

Clarke smiles. She smiles in gratefulness, always thankful that Bellamy Blake is the one person who knows her, the one person who knows her thoughts and her worries before she even gets the chance to express them. She nods at him in understanding as he continues to gaze at her. His eyes displaying that familiar look of intensity.

"I'm sure we can find something else to bring back," Clarke tells him.

They don't. They come back with empty hands. But it feels good to spend a day saving lives instead of taking them.

* * *

 

v.

By the time summer begins, almost every person in the camp is aware of Clarke's twisted theory for distraction.

Turns out, the nameless boy who she spends most of her nights with isn't exactly wordless, and when people talk, so does he. And not just the brief summary based on the fact that he's sleeping with Clarke Griffin, the prior leader of the 100, but in detail descriptions of the way she looks and sounds and feels. The details of how she's desperate and willing. A good time.

Honestly, it makes her feel sick.

She's sick of the men who snicker as she walks by, sick of the look of rage that passes by Bellamy's expression every time he hears it, sick of Octavia and her mothers lectures on how to be respectful to her body. But most of all, Clarke is sick of herself. Sick of being so weak and stupid. Stupid and weak. Again, an endless cycle.

Clarke is sitting at a table outside, a plate of vegetables in front of her, when a boy comes to her for the second time that day. The fellow members of the 100 that sit with her - Bellamy, Octavia Jasper - instantly recognize him as the one who got locked up for theft. A pity crime to the amount of sins they commit nowadays.

Bellamy shifts in his seat in order to make the gun in his lap visible, but that doesn't stop the boy from approaching her.

"Hey there, Clarke," he says, and Clarke remembers that his name is Trevor, "how are you? You look good."

Octavia stabs her piece of meat with her fork. "Piss off, Trevor."

The boy ignores the comments and looks directed at him from all members at the table, and it isn't until Bellamy shoves him to the ground that he understands he isn't welcome. Clarke knows that she's safe, knows that the people around her (Bellamy especially) would never let anyone touch her. But she constantly thinks of what could happen when they're not around as Trevor rises from the grass. With a weak wave, Trevor treks towards the group of men waiting for him across the camp. She recognizes all of them from the drop ship. A group of immature boys who look like they're playing a game of 'truth or ask Clarke Griffin to have sex.'

She doesn't realize until later that it wasn't a game, but more of a hunt.

A hunt that continues into the same night.

Clarke is laying on her bed when she first hears it - a swift breaking of a branch outside her tent. Her ears perk, listening closely for any other noise to follow. And then there's that sick feeling of waiting. Waiting for the end. Waiting for what happens next.

And then hands cover her mouth as she becomes pinned to her mattress.

Her screams are muffled by his skin, and her strength is minimized by his weight. She feels hopeless and helpless, more broken and unfixable then any measure possible. She cringes as the idea of waiting goes away, and now she feels it, feels the end finally happening.

Trevor rubs his jeans against her as he kneels on her hands, using the hand that isn't covering her mouth to work on unzipping her pants.

Clarke panics. She knows she isn't winning, is barely even fighting, and she realizes she's being selfish. She thinks of her mother and father, of Wells and Jasper and Octavia.

Of _Bellamy_. The Bellamy who would spit on her grave if he knew she died without a fight.

Clarke is able to twist her body enough for his hand to slip on her mouth, a long enough time for her to release a blood curdling scream. It's sharp and high as she closes her eyes, and Trevor tries multiple time to cover her mouth but she finds a way to bite his hands until they bleed. He eventually responds by slapping her across the face. The action stings her cheek, but it doesn't stop her from yelling.

"Shut the fuck up, you little bitch," he scowls. "Or I swear to God I will - "

His words are cut short and she feels the weight of his body dissolve.

Her eyes snap open to the sound of fists slamming against flesh, and a voice cursing and threatening. _His_ voice. "You fucking piece of shit. You fucking piece of shit," Bellamy repeats, each word a punch to Trevor's face. "You fucking _piece of shit_."

Clarke doesn't realize she's shaking until warm arms spread around her, trying to hold her still. "Clarke, please, come on let's get you to medical," Octavia whispers softly in her ear. "We need to get you out of here."

But Clarke doesn't move. She doesn't feel safe. And it's not because Trevor is still here, with his face cracking open and bleeding - but because Bellamy isn't beside her, isn't the one comforting her.

But Bellamy doesn't even see her. All he sees is red. All he sees is rage and pain being released into the bloody face beneath him. His back is facing her, but she can almost feel the anger that enters his expression, and she knows that she has to stop it before it fully engulfs him.

"Bellamy, stop!" Clarke cries out, her desperation instantly mixing with her tears. She removes Octavia's arms from her shivering frame and stumbles off the bed and towards the sound of punching and despair. A sob escapes her throat as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, her lips pressing to his neck. "Stop. Please."

Bellamy instantly stills. The tension that heavily hung above them disappears, and now there's a new pressure. A sound of only crying and sobbing and breathing. Bellamy's bleeding hands touch hers and it makes her break down. She was so scared. So damn scared.

Bellamy twists his body to face her, and he pulls her into his arms. His hands feel broken and so does her heart. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that more guards appear at the entrance of her tent. Doesn't matter that her nightmares will soon be scarred with more blood. All that matters is Bellamy's voice whispering those familiar words of comfort as she soaks his shirt in her tears.

And finally, in his arms, she feels safe.

* * *

 

vi.

Trevor gets sent to prison for seven years and Bellamy is charged of nothing but a broken hand.

And the nightmares continue for Clarke, even develop, more and more gruesome and terrifying then when they first began all those months ago. Now there's not only Finn but Jasper and Abby and Octavia and all the people who now look at her like they're frightened she'll break. And it makes sense, all of this is enough to break her - but it doesn't; because she's already broken.

The only one who doesn't look at her like that is Bellamy. And it makes her want to punch him and thank him at the same time.

The moon is only beginning to rise when Octavia walks Clarke back to her tent. She's been loyal to her ever since the incident, constantly telling Clarke that she's here if she needs to talk, talk, talk and talk. Clarke appreciates it, and she knows that talking can help, but not for her.

All Clarke wants to do is sleep.

"Hey."

The two girls turn in the direction of the additional voice. Both their eyes widen at a very uncomfortable Raven, her arms crossing her chest. "So, uhm," she begins, averting her eyes to the dark sky above them. Although there's no contact between them, Clarke knows she's directing the words to her. "What happened with Trevor . . . he's an asshole."

And then she walks away. And Clarke feels as if she can almost sleep that night without the heaviness that hangs on her chest.

But she doesn't. The night occurs as usual, with Clarke waking in screams, and Octavia (sometimes Bellamy) whispering the same comforting words - "you'll be okay, you'll be okay, you'll be okay . . . "

The nightmares get more real and more draining with each passing day. She's had multiple incidents of digging her nails in Octavia's skin, and close encounters with pounding her fist into Bellamy's chest. The most recent night ends with Octavia leaving Clarke's tent with a small cut on her cheek.

Later on, when Octavia is returning to her own tent, she decides to stop at Bellamy's when she notices his open covers. She stands in front of him in exhaustion. "Clarke had the nightmares again, it was pretty intense," she tells him. There's a hint of sympathy and hopelessness in her voice. "I don't know how she's going to recover from this, Bell."

There's sincere concern in her voice, a tone that Bellamy has only heard from her in the rarest of occasions. Her eyes water and her lips tremble with emotions she's afraid of confessing about the girl who once led one hundred people, the girl who once loved and laughed. Who once had fire.

Octavia can't help but feel that the fire is slowly fading.

But Bellamy doesn't even hesitate to respond. "She will," he reassures her, "she will."

* * *

 

vii.

A night when the image of dead bodies and crimson hands overwhelm her senses, Clarke wakes up to bruises and scratches along her arms.

She tries to calm a worried Abby by explaining it could be from the hunt her and Octavia went on earlier that day, but her mother already has that look of confirmation in her eyes and Clarke knows she doesn't believe it. Abby reanalyzes the wounds on her skin and gestures for her to stay in the medical base for the night. Not as a daughter, or because she needs a comfier bed, but as a patient.

Clarke feels like an animal the moment her mother ties the bands around her wrists, restraining her. "This won't be permanent," she tells her daughter as she brushes her hair back. "I just don't want you to hurt yourself, honey."

Clarke doesn't look at her. She feels as if she might be losing her sanity.

It isn't until midnight, when a familiar sight of brown hair and broad shoulders approaches her. He grabs the stool closest to him and drags it to the edge of her bed. "Hey there, princess," Bellamy mutters, a small smirk reaching his lips.

Clarke almost wants to close her eyes and pretend he's not there. She doesn't want him to see her like this. "What are you doing here?"

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Come on, princess, you really think I would let you rot in this place by yourself for the night?" he questions. There's a hint of amusement in his eyes that makes the white room a little bit more colourful.

Clarke frowns. "I'm on suicide watch, aren't I?"

The sudden mischievousness in his gaze fades, and her heart deflates. She almost wants to pinch herself to see if she's dreaming again, to see if this is real, if Clarke Griffin, previous leader and survivor, is actually on suicide watch.

She doesn't have to pinch herself because Bellamy reaches forward and rests his hand on hers, and it feels jolting and tasteful.

"I was going to come anyways," he explains to her. He's looking into her eyes and it's hard not to return his gaze when his expression is so desperate. "Your mom . . . she's just worried. She felt it would be better."

Clarke scoffs. "Better for who? Her or me?"

It's not meant to be a joke, but Bellamy chuckles anyway. He leans forward in his stool and rests his chin on the mattress she's laying on. Her breath hitches slightly. "I would think it'd be better for your mom because, personally," he soothes his fingers along the skin of her wrist, "I don't think one ass is enough to break Clarke Griffin."

Clarke shakes her head. He still doesn't get it. Doesn't he remember the days following Finn's murder, when the only emotion she could display was weakness? Doesn't he remember the tears and pain she holds on to him for? Doesn't he remember having to wake her up in the middle of the night multiple times because of the memories that haunt her?

"Bellamy . . . " she whispers. Their eyes are intent on each other. "I'm already broken."

There's a moment of determination that flickers between his gaze. He tilts his head so his cheek is resting against the smoothness of the mattress sheets. His lips quiver into a small grin, so gentle and caring and yearning for one thing. For her to realize what she means and what she means to him.

"No, you're not," he tells her; and if he has to live the rest of his life reassuring Clarke Griffin that she's whole, it'll be enough. "Not at all."

She stares at him through hooded eyes. Her hands suddenly feel heavy in the restraints and her heart feels heavy in her chest. She sighs, and she knows that if she were to sleep the sound of his comforting words, maybe she'll be alright.

"Will you stay the whole night?" she asks, almost shy at first.

Bellamy nods, the ghost of his smile still tracing his lips. His fingers curl around hers as he closes his eyes. "The whole damn night," he confirms.

For the first time in months, the nightmares don't fill her mind.

* * *

 

viii.

Three days later, he takes her to a river.

She wasn't expecting it, especially with autumn drawing near and the wind beginning to cool. She thought they were to go on their occasional hunting day, and get back to Camp Jaha before the sky became a cloud of night and chills above them. But she should know better than to predict what Bellamy Blake will do next.

So here they were, a squirrel in one hand while his free one reaches towards her, gesturing her to join him on the rocks.

"Come on," he urges, noticing her hesitant stance.

Clarke sighs. She hasn't been able to release herself of the sensation she felt when Bellamy held her hand three days ago. Despite the roughness his skin has developed from the hardships they encounter on Earth, his grasp was soft and gentle, and it scares her how much she wants to feel it again.

But with him in front of her, and the view of a sunset before them, she knows she'll be just as scared if she doesn't take his hand now. Just as scared if he isn't beside her. And not the fear that she's so familiar with, but this one is different, this one is more . . . dependent. But she isn't exactly sure what for.

Her heart quickens as she leans towards him, using his hand as balance to step onto the rocks. He grins when she sways beside him, her fingers loosening from his grip. She looks up at him, her expression questioning. "Why are we here?"

Bellamy gestures to the scene around them. "Don't you feel it?" he wonders aloud. His eyes travel the landscape, and her gaze never leaves his face. "When you think of Earth, what do you think of?"

Clarke pounders for a moment. "Hell," she tells him.

Bellamy chuckles. He turns back to her and there's a new trace of sadness in his eyes. "It didn't always used to be like that though, did it?" She wonders if he's also trying to reassure himself. He looks back at the river and smiles. "There used to be birthday parties, and weddings, and Sunday nights watching those football games. If that was possible before, it's still possible now."

Clarke stares at him. She stares at the way his jaw flexes when he's desperate for people to understand, stares at the way his eyes appreciate the scene that surrounds them. She stares at his mouth, words only escaping it moments ago, explaining the idea of a hope for the future. Despite herself, she smiles. Smiles even though she knows his idea is not possible. "I thought your method to make people feel better is by stabbing something," she teases him.

Bellamy turns back to her and laughs. "I think we get enough of that on a daily basis," he says, and holds up the lifeless squirrel in front of them.

Clarke giggles and nods, and for the next few moments she forgets about the nightmares and hopelessness. She pretends it doesn't exist, pretends she doesn't feel the quickening of her heart when Bellamy helps her into the lake, pretends she doesn't notice the blush creeping her cheeks when he holds her to keep her from sinking. Pretends that she doesn't feel a chance for happiness whenever he is near.

So when they return to their tents at night - after they both receive lectures of irresponsibility and immaturity upon arrival - she pretends she doesn't think of his smile when she closes her eyes.

* * *

 

ix.

They celebrate the one year anniversary of being on the ground four weeks later.

There's a crowd of people surrounding the remaining of the 100 who were seen as prisoners only 365 days prior. The camp's population stands before them in respect, watching as the council stands on a platform and congratulates each one of them for surviving in such a harsh atmosphere on their own. On their own while the others before them watched from outer space.

It's meant to be a victorious event, with every teenager that wasn't slaughtered by the Grounder or Mountain Men attacks being praised by the fellow people and leaders of Camp Jaha. Their faces, that used to be constantly traced with blood and loss, display their proud smiles and surviving laughter. Even after everything, they still know how to laugh.

Clarke grins as Jasper and Monty are called to the platform that the council created for the specific day. Abby honours their bravery and intelligence, addressing them as the kids who helped restore hope for the remaining survivors trapped inside of Mount Weather. Hope, Clarke almost laughs, is suddenly becoming a popular state to believe in.

Octavia laughs beside her and presses her mouth against Clarke's ear. "Looks like they finally get the attention they've been looking for," she comments. Clarke follows her gaze, noticing a small group of women standing to the side, eyes twinkling and lips curving as they stare at the two boys in admiration.

Clarke raises her eyebrow in amusement. She can't help but feel the worthiness and happiness that surrounds the camp, making it that much more difficult to accept those who aren't here celebrating with them. Her eyes travel to Raven standing at the end of the line, her chest broad and her chin set. Raven turns towards her, frowning, but there is no hatred in her eyes.

Clarke sighs, and Bellamy must notice her tension, because he nudges her shoulder with his. "Cheer up princess, we've made history."

It isn't until seven minutes later that her mother calls Clarke and Bellamy forward to stand on the platform. They lock their hands behind their backs, shoulders straight and face upwards as the council members honour them as the prior co-leaders and saviours of The 100. There's words of encouragement, statements of praise, but Clarke doesn't hear a thing, she can't stop thinking about him.

But then Bellamy gives her that smile, and her heart starts to beat again.

"For those who have risen, may they find the happiness within their achievements, and the love within their hearts," Abby speaks, her voice addressing a nation. "And for those who have fallen . . . May we meet again."

The crowd responds with sorrow. "May we meet again."

* * *

 

x.

She eventually lets him bring her to the drop ship.

It didn't take much convincing, especially with Bellamy constantly reminding her of hope, reminding her of how she used to be. Sometimes she looks at him and forgets the boy who contemplated letting go of her hand in the grounder pit, forgets the boy who spat at her ever existed. The only remaining trait of that boy is his eyes, ever so dark and soulful. And a hint of hope, always a hint of hope for when she's near him.

They're both silent on their way there, their feet crunching amongst the leaves that are frosted from the autumn air. Her eyes glaze over the trees above them, and she feels the atmosphere securing around her as she observes the different colours. She shivers in her sweater, her hands gripping her arms as she follows the familiar path to the place where it all began. Where it all ended.

Clarke breathes deeply when the gates appear in front of her. She remembers how much relief she felt when she first saw the wooden fences the day her and Anya escaped Mount Weather, how much they looked like home. She doesn't remember the last time she she felt the warmth of home in Camp Jaha. Doesn't remember the last time any of the survivors did.

"Clarke?" Bellamy muses. She looks over at him, meeting his eyes with her guarded ones. His head tilts towards the grave sit to the side, loose leaves piling on top of the surface. "We don't have to do this if you're not ready."

Clarke grins sadly. She'll never be ready. "No, it's okay. I'm okay," she reassures him. She rubs her palms again each other, and he notices her hesitation as a suggestion to lead her. He nods, turning towards the reminder of the teenagers who did not make it, who did not live long enough to accept their end.

She completes the remaining distance between her and the graves, and her legs feel weak with each step she takes. She stands beside him, her eyes analyzing the multiple holes in the ground. "Which one is he?" she asks in a breathless tone.

Bellamy looks down at her, and she knows he's analyzing her expression, looking for any sign of distress. When he seems satisfied, he nods to the grave in front of them. Right fucking there.

She can hardly breathe.

Her legs finally give in, and she feels the dirt beneath her as she kneels on the surface. The grave looks so small, too small to hold the body that she once embraced and loved, that she once killed. Her heart feels heavy and her body feels numb and everything seems dizzy.

Clarke doesn't even realize she's crying until Bellamy's hand rests on her shoulder, displaying the actions she knows he only saves for her tears. Her eyes instantly focus, and she rests her hand on his, gripping his fingers.

Her eyes blink against the wetness that clouds her vision. "I am so sorry."

And she is. She's so God damn sorry for everything, for everyone. She's sorry for rejecting his declaration of love when she felt the same way, sorry for not believing in him when she should have, sorry for being the reason for his death. And God, is she ever so fucking sorry for impending the pain of killing him onto Raven, onto everyone at camp, onto herself.

Her heart hurts a little less when she feels the ground shift as Bellamy kneels beside her. His hand grips her shoulder, and his touch sends a shiver of reassurance throughout her body. She closes her eyes, leaning into him and pressing her face into the crook of his neck. Her hands move to grip onto his jacket to bring him closer, and he tastes like both heaven and hell.

Bellamy breaths deeply. His fingers cradle the back of her neck as she buries herself into him, and she knows she has to depend on him for comfort, depend on him for strength and hope. God does it terrify her.

Her eyes begin to dry and her breath begins to slow, but she doesn't move from their embrace, and it feels frightening and comforting to keep him so close.

* * *

 

xi.

Clarke is in the cafeteria when she approaches her, and it takes her a moment to recognize the familiar look of fire in eyes, of brunette hair.

Raven stops in front of her, her arms crossing against her chest. She hasn't made any further insults since the days following Trevor's assault, but she hasn't made any attempts at reconciliation either. The situation inflicts a spark of apprehension inside of Clarke.

Raven exhales sharply, and the sound seems cunning. The rage has since faded from her expression, and has been replaced with pure understanding that Clarke has never seen in her before. "I get it," Raven tells her, and the voice is odd to hear without hatred, "okay? I friggin get it."

Clarke shakes her head. "Raven - "

"I needed someone to blame," she continues. She laughs humourlessly, almost as if her heart is still broken and attempting to repair it. "I know that you did what you had to do. I can't forgive you, not yet, but I understand why you did it. I do." She sighs, shrugging her shoulders. "You saved us."

Oh.

Clarke looks at her. Her mouth opens slightly but no words come out, no thoughts even begin to process. She releases a breath of relief, and God does it feel good, to not feel the weight of being hated and despised. She thinks of Bellamy, of those words of encouragement she thought were just repeated for her sanity, and she feels it, for the first time in months, she feels a future with hope.

Clarke smiles at her. Hopeful. "Thank you."

* * *

 

xii.

Two days later, her belief in hope is shattered.

Clarke is in her tent when she first hears the screaming, the tone so harsh and desperate her heart falters before she is even aware of what the conflict is. The screams are of her and her mothers name, high and needed, and Clarke pulls her jacket over her shoulders. She steps outside of her tent and there's a feeling of anguish as she thinks of who the person in need might be. For a moment, it feels as if she already knows and refuses to accept it.

"Clarke! Abby!"

She rushes towards the sound. Her feet crunch against the grass as she draws nearer and nearer. She sees three figures walking towards the medical bay in the distance, one in the middle as the other two are on each side, carrying the person. Her eyes squint, and she notices Jasper and Murphy on either side, and a familiar patch of fluffy, brown hair between them.

No.

No, no, no, no . . .

"Bellamy!" she cries out. Her breathing is shortening and her voice is hoarse and weak. She doesn't move for a moment, her body trapped on the ground as she processes what is happening. It's him, her Bellamy, being dragged against the grass, blood oozing out of his thigh. No.

She exhales sharply, knowing that he needs her to stay alive, and she needs him to feel alive. She sprints towards them as they enter the medical bay, pushing past the curtains that fall in front of her and stepping into the tent. Her mother is already in there, clearing the table and preparing the tools necessary for the procedure they're about to perform.

"What happened?" Clarke asks, and her breath sounds shaky and terrified. She watches as Jasper and Murphy lay him on top of the table closest to Abby, their wide eyes wandering. Clarke crosses the distance between her and Bellamy, trying not to pay attention to the pain that stains his expression.

"We were hunting a game, didn't even realize we crossed into Grounder territory," Murphy explains. For a moment, Clarke instantly panics, thinking of any potential poison. But Murphy continues before she can say anything. "That's when the jaguar jumped on top of him, grabbed onto his side. We killed it as fast as we could, but it still got him. Still bit him."

His voice sounds distant, almost frightening. Clarke breathes deeply and nods at them before turning to the boy laying below him. She reaches forward and rests a hand on his forehead, brushing his hair back as her mother analyzes his wound. Clarke doesn't want to see.

"Bellamy?" Her tone is soft and gentle, masking the fear. "It's Clarke. Can you hear me?"

It's low, but she can hear him mumbles a 'yes'. His eyes are closed and his lips are traced with blood, but he manages to curve them into a small grin. She almost laughs, her thumb gently grazing the skin of his cheek. She can hear the ripping of fabric as her mother uses the scissors and cut his shirt in half, revealing the full portion of Bellamy's injury.

"Clarke . . . "

She turns to see her mother looking at her, nodding. Her eyes travel to where her hands pull at the bloodied material of his shirt, revealing the length of his wound. His skin is torn and she can notice the outline of teeth marks around his torso. Blood pumps out of his open flesh with every breath he takes.

God _damn_ it.

"Okay," Clarke whispers, trying to hide the fear in her voice. She can hear her mother ushering Jasper and Murphy out of the room, telling them to find Octavia and tell her what's happening. But to not allow her inside. Clarke knows those words, knows those words are only meant for when the person isn't guaranteed to survive. For when Bellamy isn't guaranteed to survive.

She tries to think of the hope he's been so insistent on believing in, and she closes her eyes briefly, breathing in. "Bellamy," she says, figuring that hope is a two way street, "I'm really going to need you to live."

He manages to gurgle out a shallow breath. "Anything for you, princess."

The next fifty-seven minutes are tense and terrifying. His choked grunts of pain that echo throughout the tent feel like needles digging into Clarke's heart, making it hard to focus. Her hands merely tremble as she cleans his wound of any bacteria, and she has to remind herself of what her mother always taught her, of not showing emotion when performing procedures. That can only do one thing - worsening the patient's condition.

Clarke breathes deeply, trying not to think about Bellamy's cries, or tries not to think about Octavia's screams from outside the room. Tries not to think about the overwhelming amount of blood he's lost. It's as she's said before, how it's so much easier just to fucking pretend. How, before, it was so easy to pretend she didn't feel the pull between them, and now, as he lays bleeding in front of her, she'd do anything to feel it one more time.

Her fingers sooth as she reminds herself of who she's working on, of how she needs to stay alive more than anyone on this stupid planet. God, does she ever fucking need him. And does he ever need her. This man, the smartest man she knows, stupid enough to devote his life to reassuring her that she isn't broken, to reassuring her of hope.

So stupid. She cherishes him for it.

She really fucking cherishes him.

Only moments later, when her mother is sowing his sides together, Bellamy is the one who begins to tremble on the medical table. His sudden movement almost causes Abby to rip the string from his skin, the needle she's been using cutting deeper into his open flesh. Clarke's head snaps to look him, to see the foam clotting at his mouth and his eyes rolling into his head.

Clarke's hearts stops at the sight of him. "No . . . "

Her mother acts quickly, moving to turn his head to the side. "He's going into shock, Clarke, I can't have you going into shock, too."

She doesn't. She moves fast, does what she remembers from previous patients and does what she remembers from the time she's saved Lincoln and countless others from this condition.

But her hands feel heavy and she can't help but feel that this time is different. That she's really losing him. She tries hard not to think like that, but when blood squirts from his open wound, she can't help but feel the battle inside of her heart coming to an end.

"Come on, Bellamy. I need you to stay. I need you to stay."

Those are the last words she says before his chest deflates, and he stops breathing.

* * *

 

xiii.

It's been 74 hours, and Bellamy Blake still hasn't awaken.

The sun is now just settling amongst them, the dawn of another day without Bellamy coming to an end. Clarke sighs against the mattress they moved him onto in the medical bay yesterday, eyes intent on the pale boy in front of her. His face isn't as bruised and red since she first saw him those three days ago, when the outcome of his survivability was not guaranteed.

It still isn't.

Clarke remembers how her heart faltered at the sound of his breathlessness, remembers how her mother acted quickly to resuscitate him. She remembers screaming and thrashing as Jasper held her back, not being able to control the broken soul inside of her. She remembers the moment his breath returned to him, the way his chest continued to pump, remembers crawling back to his side and whispering for him to never scare her like that again.

And now here she is. One hand on his chest as she mesmerizes the sight of him. Still terrified.

His wound is clean and his heart is steady, but neither her and mother can predict when he will wake up. If he will wake up. Clarke shakes her head to clear her from the thought. He's waking up. He has to. If everything he's ever preached about hope is true, he'll come back to her.

Abby has been attempting to convince Clarke to sleep in her own tent since the first night, but Clarke has refused every time. Even Raven and Murphy, who visited yesterday, had their own tries of making her rest, but Clarke doesn't listen. The truth is, she doesn't know how to sleep without him holding her in the night when she awakens from her nightmares.

And now, this time, she'll be the one who's there for him when he opens his eyes.

"I don't know how I'll live if he doesn't wake up."

Clarke lifts her face, her eyes resting on the girl on the opposite side of the mattress. Octavia returns the glare, her cheeks stained with the wetness of her tears, and she makes no move to wipe them away. She's been in here as well, every day, and her and Clarke have been taking turns crying and comforting each other. Currently, it's Clarke's turn to comfort.

She hesitates slightly before responding. "He will." That's what Bellamy would say, would want her to say. "He would never leave you. Not even if he's given no choice."

Octavia smiles sadly, her eyes softening at her words. She tilts her head and looks across the distance between them, at her motionless brother. "Yeah . . . " her eyes return to Clarke, "you too. He would never leave you in a million years."

It isn't until later, when Lincoln comes to convince Octavia into sleeping in her tent for the night, does Clarke allow herself to think of what she said. Her eyes well with tears as she looks at him, Bellamy, her rebel leader, and it isn't long until she realizes what this is. What Bellamy means to her. Why she needs him so much.

She thought she could never posses this feeling ever again.

But Bellamy always knew. He's constantly tried to reassure her without fully saying it.

Clarke rests her forehead against his cold arm. She clutches against the mattress and breathes deeply, letting the sobs escape her. "You can't leave, Bellamy," she whispers. Her voice is strong with pain and need. "You know why."

He does. He always has.

* * *

 

xiv.

It's been 86 hours when she first hears it.

It's early in the morning, the sun not yet reaching the woods that surround them. There's a cool breeze that enters the tent from the autumn air, creating multiple shivers down Clarke's body. She pulls the sweater closer against her and leans her head on the mattress, her fingers tracing patterns into the sheet. The material feels soft and innocent under her touch, and she wishes she could be more familiar of what that feels like.

Her mind is barely functioning, but she still hears it. God, she's been waiting to hear it for four days.

"Good morning."

The voice is rough; rough and hoarse and weak, but it's still his. It still sounds like the voice who soothes and comforts her, who reassures her, who tells her of hope. It's still Bellamy.

Bellamy.

 _Her_ Bellamy.

Clarke's face instantly lifts from the fabric. She can feel the pumping of her heart becoming more accelerating, as if she hasn't felt it until now. As if it hasn't beat until now. A stinging sensation pitches the back of her eyes when they settle on him, his gaze wavering and his lips curving into a smile. That fucking smile. That fucking Bellamy.

Her voice cracks when she is able to speak through the lump in her throat. "Bellamy?"

His fingers travel along the sheets that cover him, resting on her arm. His contact is uplifting, a touch so strong it makes her weak with happiness. "What is it?" he asks her, and she can see the familiar amusement in his eyes, "is there something on my face?"

Clarke isn't sure whether the sound that escapes her is a laugh or a sob, but all she knows is that Bellamy is alive, in front of her, and that's everything to be relieved for in the world. She's calling Octavia's name only moments later as the frown she thought would have a permanent position on her face develops into a smile, a genuine smile. A smile because it's Bellamy.

"Oh God," she breathes. Every exhale feels deep and meaningful, the air not coming in quick enough. "You're here. You're really here."

Her fingers graze against his body as she travels them along his skin, reaching further up his frame. She cups his face between her hands and her thumbs press gently onto his cheeks. Bellamy rests his hands onto hers, rubbing her skin gently. His eyes never leave hers. "Where else would I be?"

And then she feels it again. That funny little thing called hope.

And love.

Though it's astonishing and terrifying, it's definitely love.

Their reunion ends too shortly for both of their satisfaction when Octavia stumbles through the flaps of the tent. There's a look of gratitude and appreciation directed towards Clarke before she fills the distance between her and her brother, her lips quivering. Clarke leans away from him then, and with one last longing look at her, he turns towards his sister, accepting her embrace.

Clarke grins at the siblings, lifting herself from the chair she's taken comfort in for four days. Her gaze lingers on him, making sure that this isn't another dream, or another nightmare. But then she hears his voice again, and that sound could wake her from any state of sleep she rests in, no matter how deep.

So when Clarke exits the tent to allow them some time to relish in their relief, she's aware that Bellamy knows she will return to him when Octavia leaves. He knows because he knows her, and she knows him.

Love, like she said, is a funny thing.

* * *

 

xv.

Octavia finds her five hours later sitting along the perimeter of Camp Jaha. Her hands are rubbing gently against the grass she she peers at the sun above her, the sun that has witnessed many wars and many victories. The sun that has strengthened the living and embraced the dead. It feels light on her skin, its rays sending a signal of brightness to her eyes.

"Hey you," Octavia murmurs as she taps her foot against Clarke's hip, "are you praying?"

Clarke smiles. There's no need to pray anymore. She lifts herself from the ground and turns to Octavia, her heavy heart not so heavy anymore. "Just thanking whatever is above, I guess. Is he awake still?"

Octavia shakes her head. "No. After I saw him, your mother came in and ran some tests. Looks like every things good, other than the fact he won't be able to walk for a couple of weeks. But we can deal with that . . . " She tilts her head to the side then, analyzing what's to come of Clarke's expression with what she says next. "He's been asking for you though. But before your mother was even finished, he was already asleep."

Clarke nods at the recent information, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest in mention of his desire to see her. She turns towards the direction of the tent and steps forward. "Okay, I'll see if he's still - "

But she isn't able to complete her sentence because Octavia throws herself at her, her arms wrapping tightly against Clarke's waist. She pulls her against her and her fingers clutch at Clarke's shirt. There's a shudder of breath before she speaks. "Thank you, Clarke," she whispers. The voice has the same touch of comfort as her brother. "You saved his life. More than I can expect you to. Thank you."

Clarke returns the embrace, wounding her arms around Octavia's back. "Anytime, Octavia." And she means it. Anytime, whatever it takes, whatever she gives, for Bellamy Blake. Any damn time.

He's still asleep when Clarke enters the medical bay, eyelashes fluttering and chest pumping with a heart so powerful it could inspire nations. Powerful enough to inspire a girl who's broken soul saw no meaning, who learned to accept her flaws and mistakes by one word from his mouth. She sits on the chair that has acquainted her throughout the week, the cushion still as comfortable and stiff.

The only different aspect of this room is him, the boy who has yet awaken, now the boy who has reawaken her heart.

Clarke leans forward in her chair, the furniture squeaking underneath her as she does. She lays her chin on the mattress and stares, just stares, at his mouth, his closed eyes, the freckles that settle on his skin. There's a look of contentment that rests on his expression despite the chaos that covers his body. It feels a whole lot similar to the situation inside her own self.

Her fingers graze gently against his forehead. The movement is soft and gentle as she powders her touch towards his hair, her hands brushing the brown curls that roll onto his face. She doesn't know how long she repeats the affection, but it feels nice, and natural, so damn good that it becomes a routine. Caress and stare, caress and stare, caress and stare . . .

It isn't long until his eyes open, and he's staring back.

He doesn't hesitate as his gaze softens at the sight of her. Instantly grinning. "Hey there."

The nickname fills her mind with memories of a different time and a different feeling. How he used to spit the name at her, how he would use it to minimize her. The boy in front of her almost seems impossible compared to the boy then. "Hey," she smiles. His face is close and his breath is near and it sends a shiver throughout her body.

Bellamy leans into her hand as she continues to comb his hair with her fingers. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, and Clarke wonders whether he's controlling the pain that the small movement has caused or relishing in her touch. He opens his eyes then, and she can see the adoration in them. Good, that's good. "How bad am I?" he asks her, genuinely interested.

Clarke laughs. "If you didn't fall asleep on my mother, you would know," she teases him. He playfully rolls his eyes. "But I mean, you're breathing, but it's going to be a couple of days until you're able to leave."

"Good thing you're my doctor then, you get to see me everyday."

Clarke smiles sadly. There's a moments hesitation in his words that reminds her of the pain they've both endured over the past couple of days. She gazes at him steadily, her eyes never wanting to look away. "You know, I thought I lost you the other day," she confesses. There's the familiar tone of fear in her voice.

Bellamy seems to notice it as well because he inches closer to her, his face breaths away from hers on his pillow. He shakes his head back and forth softly. "It's going to take a lot more than a damn bite for me to leave this shit hole."

Clarke knows he's meaning to make her laugh. Knows he's trying to lighten her mood. But the instant care he craves for her makes her wonder, makes her her mind race as she thinks of the extent of their feelings for each other. She wants a confirmation. So she thinks of hope and fear and relief and grief -

And decides to ask him directly.

"Do you love me?"

She expects him to laugh. Or maybe roll his eyes. Expects him to crack another joke on how he doesn't, and they're only friends. She expects the rejection because she's used to the series of disappointments. Used to getting hurt.

What she doesn't expect though, is the curving of his lips. "What do you think?" he says. And there it is. Her confirmation.

Clarke doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She guesses she's only known; she has seen the way he looks at her, has felt the way he holds her, has heard the way he comforts her. She's never given him anything in return and yet he's always there, almost every night, brushing his fingers through her hair until she tires of her sobbing from the nightmares.

Clarke shakes her head. It doesn't make sense. "How?" she stresses.

There's a sense of determination in his eyes, those eyes that are always set on proving her self-worth. He reaches forward and taps his finger gently on his nose. "I don't know where to begin, Clarke," he tells her. His fingers slide down her skin, grazing against her cheek. "You're so God damn glorious."

Clarke leans into his touch. His words weaken her heart and mind and she feels herself caving. She gives him one last chance to admit this is a joke. That he's lying. Because who could ever love someone like her? She inhales sharply, truly genuine when she asks, "even after everything?"

Bellamy doesn't hesitate, his hand cupping her face. His eyes are sharp with reassurance as he nods, yet again speaking the words he's been desperately trying to convince her of. "You're not broken, Clarke Griffin," he clarifies.

And she finally gives in. Finally.

Her lips begin to quiver and her eyes instantly water but the tear inside her heart doesn't feel so shattered. His name is on her lips, sobbing, and in a moment he's shifting on the mattress he's laying on, and she's crawling onto it beside him.

Her breath isn't as sharp and her soul isn't as weak. She clutches onto the sheets that cover him, careful not to make any movement near his wound, and hides her face into the crook of his neck. He embraces her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, pressing his lips to the skin on her forehead.

And, in Bellamy Blake's arms, she truly believes she isn't all that broken after all.

* * *

 

xvi.

Clarke stays with him everyday for the next two weeks.

She spends an endless amount of nights encouraging him to move his toes, spends an overwhelming amount of days assisting him to lift himself from the mattress and stand on his feet. He does, with much protest she might add, though always mentioning how she should get some rest, or some fresh air, or have some free time. But Clarke doesn't leave.

She is his doctor anyways.

And although his confession of his feelings for her makes her blood race and her ears ring like she's seeing the sun for the first time, there is no development in their relationship. No stolen kisses, no return of her feelings for him. And although she does desire to press her lips against his and admit how much he means to her, she knows it's not the right time. She knows that all that matters right now is his recovery.

She tries not to make it seem like she's procrastinating.

But Bellamy insists that he comprehends. He isn't too forward in asking of what she's thinking, isn't pressuring her into a state she isn't ready for. So he just patiently waits, watching as she rests her head against his mattress or helps him take a step forward. And it helps. Being near him helps. She doesn't ever find herself wishing she was somewhere else. Where ever he is, she knows that's where she wants to be.

Her mother informs them both that he'll need another week in the medical bay before he's able to return to his occasional camp duties. She's been understanding with the situation, not as worried about Clarke and her rest as Clarke would have expected. She assumes it's because she knows Clarke will refuse, that she won't leave his side. Even so, Abby tries to ignore the way her daughters eyes shine around him, and not because she doesn't approve, but because she doesn't want Clarke to become wounded again.

And Clarke gets it, because she hopes for the same outcome as well.

But then Bellamy makes a joke when discussing the people of the camp, or he smiles that damn smile that always has her breath coming in short, and she knows that somehow, it's worth it. Somehow through all the pain and suffering, she's found more to fight for. To live for. It seems like a good start to her own recovery.

It's his 24th day in the medical bay when she rises him to his feet yet again. Her fingers interlace with his as she guides him, watching his motivated expression as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. He struggles, but he's gotten better. And Octavia constantly jokes that he'll be able to hunt another jaguar in no time.

Bellamy grunts with every few steps, and Clarke never likes the feeling of his whimpers ringing in her ears. His eyes lift to hers and, despite the uncomfortable moment of pain he's in, he gives her that award winning smile. She grips his hands tighter in her own, returning the grin. His skin is warm and rough, a good feeling. A strong feeling.

"One more step," Clarke tells him. She tilts her head towards their destination, back towards his bed in the far end of the medical bay. "You're almost there."

Bellamy raises his eyebrows teasingly. "Easy for you to say."

Clarke laughs. Her smile widens when he takes the final motion towards his mattress, huffing out an exaggerated breath. She instantly misses their contact when she pulls her hands from their interlocked fingers as she rests them on his shoulder, securing his balance as he sits himself on the bedsheets. He looks up to her with those big, brown eyes. Satisfied expression.

"How was that, Dr. Griffin?"

She wants to rejoice in his accomplishment, wants to tell him that he's healing as well as expected. But her voice is trapped in her throat because of those damn eyes. Those damn eyes that suddenly dissolve her of the walls she's built up around her. And she feels herself caving.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. She shifts her body so she's standing between his legs, and her fingers clutch at the material of his shirt. His smile slowly fades when he notices her complex features, a question in his gaze. But Clarke respond. Not with words anyway.

She can't even respond with words because she's leaning towards him, and she hopes for what happens next. That word again. Hope.

Her lips press against his, a soft brush of a kiss that has her heart pumping and her head clouding. Her hands momentarily tighten around his fabric, and then he's returning the pressure, his lips sparking a hint of electricity that moves between them. The lips she's thought of kissing for so long are not what she expected, instead of being rough and harsh, they're soft and yielding. Like kissing a cloud.

Clarke hesitates, and pulls away from him. She analyzes the depths of his gaze, the rising of his chest. Her hands soften around his shirt as they continue to rest of his shoulders. Their eyes study each other, a questioning look in his and a knowing look in her eyes. He's so glorious and all his scars and bruises that it almost makes her want to kiss every stitch that runs along his body.

But she doesn't. Because she's already too damn preoccupied leaning forward to taste him again.

His lips are ready when she crashes into him, her mouth moving against his like he's the only thing she's ever breathed. And for a moment he is, because they're kissing and it's a sensation she's never felt but never wants to feel anything else. His lips are yet still gentle against hers, and she pushes hers against them, sending an indication that it's okay, that he can kiss her with as much hunger and desire as she feels as well.

Bellamy receives the message, because in the next moment his hands are in her hair and his tongue is probing at her opening. She lets him in, and the additional feeling is almost magical. Like a cure for her weakness.

She steps forward into the space between his legs, her hips lining with his knees. Her hands travel along his chest, and she can feel the burn of his touch on her fingertips. She cradles his face, her body searching for any possible opportunity to be closer to him. Her body craving his touch. So much that when they both have to pull apart for air, it's only moments of silence other than their ragged breathing until they return to their embrace, desperate and impatient.

Kissing him is like breathing. It doesn't occur to you how much you need it until its gone.

Clarke isn't sure how long they stand there for, his hands in her hair and her lips on his. It could have been minutes, hours, could have been fucking days, but then theres the overwhelming feeling of realization when he turns his face to press kisses against his jaw. The overwhelming realization that includes memories of Finn the morning after their night in the bunker, memories of Trevor being the last one who had her this close.

"Bellamy," she whispers as his lips create a path of fire on her skin. The sound of her voice causes his head to turn back and look at her, eyes burning. He doesn't move his position against her, and she sighs, leaning her forehead on his. "Bellamy," she says his name like a prayer, "I don't know how to do this."

He knows they're not words of regret, not words that are meant to tell him their chance of intimacy was a mistake. They're words of fear, fear that she might screw this up. Or he might screw it up by dying or leaving or some other shit that can happen in this fucked up world.

So he doesn't respond. Just kisses her cheek and pulls her against him, his fingers brushing through her hair. He can already feel the weightless tears on his skin as she buries her face into the side of his neck. She hugs him tightly, not wanting let go.

"I'm not going anywhere, princess," he soothes, "not as long as you're around."

He hopes (the word so much more meaningful now) that his promise is enough.

* * *

 

xvii.

That night she wakes up screaming. The horror of Finn, Trevor and Bellamy staining her eyes as she thrashes from her nightmare.

It isn't long until his arms are around her, telling her it isn't real, that she's only dreaming. Those familiar words of comfort that has hushed her into a state of silence and contentment still having the same affect on her as she calms herself, clutching his shirt to feel reality. Reality feels better than a dream.

Her fists rub against her eyes to try and rid the images of a lifeless Finn, an attacking Trevor, a Bellamy who, in the nightmare, had died with his injury. She wonders, hopefully, if that entire incident was apart of her delusional visions as well. Her fingers creep along his skin, hesitant as she brushes over the wound that scars him. He winces.

Yup. Still there. That part wasn't a nightmare.

"You should go to your own tent," he whispers to her after she continues to take deep breaths, rocking herself in her chair. He's tried several times to convince her into sleeping on her own mattress for a while now. But she can't. She won't leave. He notices the alarm in her eyes and shakes his head softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up. I told you, I'm not going anywhere."

Clarke sighs, contemplating. She thinks of the endless night she's spent at his bedside, the endless nights he's spent at hers. The amount of times he managed to make her smile, the amount of times she's managed to make him laugh. There are too many times where they've comforted each other, held each other, protected each other, praised each other. And Clarke knows now. They're a team. Bellamy and Clarke. Co-leaders, friends . . . something more. A team.

"Then neither am I."

And she doesn't. She won't.

She doesn't miss the small grin that passes over his features.

* * *

 

xviii.

Bellamy has been released from the medical bay for a month now.

That's thirty days of relishing in his recovery, thirty days of listening to his natural leadership inspire the camp, thirty days of pressing soft kisses against his lips. So small, so gentle, that even the brush of his mouth is enough to satisfy the both of them. And enough for the survivors of the 100 to tease them into oblivion. Every damn day.

Octavia was the first to break the news. Of course she was. Her squeals of excitement over witnessing Bellamy kissing Clarke's cheek the day he was released was enough for everyone in the whole friggin galaxy to learn of their new status. "Bellamy and Clarke. Lovers at last," she then said, "about damn time."

 _Lovers_. What an odd name to describe their relationship. Clarke knows her mother wouldn't like the term, even with the surprising approval she's had throughout the whole development in their connection. Abby has never liked Bellamy Blake, but knowing that he's the reason her daughter is still here (and not here as in alive, here as in heart still racing, lips still smiling, cheeks still blushing), it's enough for her to accept it.

Because, honestly, Abby believes that no one could make Clarke Griffin feel as beautiful and happy and strong as Bellamy Blake could.

Like the people say. They were like lovers.

"Do you believe in heaven?"

It's a quiet winter night, the tent surrounding them shielded with additional fabric and candles to keep the people inside from freezing. Clarke nestles in her position on the bed, turning to head to the side to meet Bellamy's expression. This is how they've been spending most of their nights, laying side by side, shoulders and legs touching, under the covers in Bellamy's tent. It feels like pure bliss.

He grins a little at her question. "I'd like to think there's someone, something, watching over us. Don't you?"

Clarke nods. She shifts her body so she's laying on her side, facing him in the warm covers they've created with their friction. Her eyes search his. Big and brown. "Do you believe in hell?" she counters.

At that, Bellamy laughs, turning his body so he's facing her as well. "Well, princess," he says. His breath is so close she can almost taste his sweetness. "If it does exist, I think I might be going there."

"Good. Because so do I."

Bellamy smiles. He leans forward, pressing his lips gently to her nose. Then her eyelids, then her cheek, her jaw . . . her lips. She melts into him, her hands moving from their place beside her head to tug at the collar of his shirt, bringing him closer. It couldn't but any colder outside, yet she can feel the heat spreading throughout her body from his touch.

Clarke pulls away slightly, resting her forehead against his. Her breathing is shallow and slow. "Bellamy?" she murmurs, her lips grazing his with her words. His eyes snap open at the desperation in her voice. "Are horrible things ever going to stop happening to us?"

He rests his head back on his pillow. There's a look of defeat in his eyes that she has never seen before. "I don't think so, Clarke," he tells her. She instantly frowns at his statement, but he goes on. "It'll get better. Then it'll get worse. And then better again. It's an endless cycle you can't stop. The only aspect you can control is how you deal with it. There's no other way to beat grief other than moving forward, to keep going."

Clarke breathes deeply. He's right. But he always has been right, hasn't he? Those words, the words to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep loving, those words saved her. Those words, and something else.

"And hope," she corrects him.

Bellamy chuckles, nodding. "Yeah. And hope," he confirms.

"And you."

There couldn't be anything more truthful than that. Despite all the preaching and comfort, the only reason they ever recovered Clarke from her sadness is because they were coming from him. Her, the princess, and him, her knight in shining armour.

Her knight in shining armour grins, his eyes softening, and then he's kissing her again.

God she can't get enough of him.

His hands grasp onto strands of her hair, his lips persistent in his motions. She kisses him back with the same want, the same need, and she can't stop thinking about how much she craves him to be closer. How much she craves him to love her.

He moves then, his hips lining with hers as he props himself on his elbow, pinning her underneath him. She whimpers at the new position, because God, Bellamy Blake is on top of her and it's the most beautiful sensation she's ever felt. His lips travel along her neck as her hands travel under his shirt, feeling the muscles that ripple on his stomach before she begins to peel the material from his body. He assists her, one hand still holding himself above her as the other hand tears the fabric off him, throwing it on the floor.

"Bellamy," she breaths. His skin is hot and soft under her fingertips as he continues to kiss her. Mouths open and tongues battling. The feeling of need inside of her begins to grow, fast and furious, and she pushes him off gently so she can remove her shirt as well. And then she pulls him back on top of her by his shoulders, because she needs to feel him again.

Clarke mentally corrects herself. With his body flush against hers, nothing feels better than that.

And then she has to correct herself again. Because after silent moments of reassurance, after questioning gazes and answering eyes, he's pulling down his pants and she's pulling down hers. And then they're one. One person, one soul, one heart. He thrusts into her, and her moans are increasing with volume, and she can't stop saying his name. And he can't stop saying hers.

This feeling. The feeling of afterglow as he holds her in his arms, sweat dripping from both their foreheads. Admiration shining in their eyes. There is nothing better. Nothing better than this feeling.

Nothing better than the feeling of love.

* * *

 

xix.

They eventually fall back into place.

Jasper and Monty manage to lead a successful hunting trip one evening, returning to Camp Jaha with a dozen large fishes he caught in the river. They're proclaimed heroes. They're given an additional amount of food on their plate and an additional amount of attention from the girls. Their expressions are constantly layered with that look - that look of hope. God damn hope.

Raven learns to live with her loss and ultimately allows Wick, another mechanic in camp, to help build herself into a stronger person. For a while she would avoid his gestures, but it's apparent to the rest of the people in camp that she loves him also. And that love gives her something. It gives her hope.

Octavia is eventually allowed daily visits between her and Lincoln. Though the council, and of course Bellamy, refused the relationship at first, it became an acceptance after Lincoln rescued Kane from a group of poisonous snakes during a hunt. It really is a love story. Two people from different worlds, separated by status and brought together by admiration. Their relationship makes the people of Camp Jaha fulfilled with compromise. It makes the people of Camp Jaha hopeful.

Bellamy is able to convince the leaders that he is still equip to hunt, still equip to protect the people in their camp. He receives his position as a guard back, covering day and night shifts without much hesitation.

Of course, the only hesitation being because he and Clarke haven't been able to leave each other's side.

But yet, he still manages to always be there when she needs him. So when he's on a night watch, he comes into her tent without anyone noticing, his uniform still on and his eyes looking at her sleeping form.

And when she wakes up, screaming, he's there. Always there.

Even with her constant fear of losing someone and her endless nights of thrashing from nightmares, he's there. His lips on her forehead and his arms wrapping around her. His touch scares the despair out of her eyes, and his voice scares the memories out of her mind.

And then she returns the favour. When he can't sleep because of another person they lost that day, or with the thought of Octavia growing up and not needing him as much, she's there. And then so are her words and her lips.

Like she said before, they're a team.

And whatever happens, no matter how horrible or destructive, she knows he'll be there. Holding her hand. And that's enough to keep going.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it:) Reviews would mean the world! You guys are awesome, xo.


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